"'O Lord, Thou hast been our refuge; from one generation to another.
"'Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever the earth and the world were made—'"
(Too fast. Much too fast. You were supposed to be following Mr. Propart; but if you kept up that pace you would have finished the Service before he had got through the Psalm.)
"'Lord God most holy—'"
"I can't hear you, Mary."
"I'm sorry. 'O Lord most mighty, O holy and most merciful Saviour, deliver us not into the bitter pains of eternal death.
"'Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts: shut not Thy merciful ears to our prayers: but spare us, Lord most holy, O God most Mighty, O holy and merciful Saviour—'"
(Prayers, abject prayers for themselves. None for him. Not one word. They were cowards, afraid for themselves, afraid of death; their funk had made them forget him. It was as if they didn't believe that he was there. And, after all, it was his funeral.)
"'Suffer us not, at our last hour—'"
The hard voice staggered and dropped, picked itself and continued on a note of defiance.